


Stateside

by avocadomoon



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, day in the life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadomoon/pseuds/avocadomoon
Summary: "My associations are widely known by now. Perhaps you have given me a reputation," T'Pol says.
Relationships: T'Pol/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 11
Kudos: 113
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Stateside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HopefulNebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopefulNebula/gifts).



T'Pol has been living, for the last six weeks, in an apartment complex not far from the Academy campus procured for her by Admiral Takahasi's personal yeoman, who still thinks Trip's name is "Tim." Not that he blames her, exactly; it's actually sort of refreshing to meet someone who is truly uninterested in the holonets. Trip suspects that Yeoman Park might even like T'Pol for her _personality_.

"Commander Tucker," T'Pol corrects gently, ever so slightly emphasizing his rank in a tone that he's sure would be the equivalent of bonking someone on the forehead on Vulcan, "will take care of the necessities from this point forward, Yeoman. Although I do wish to thank you for your assistance thus far."

"Oh, well," stammers Yeoman Park, a pretty young woman with a crush on T'Pol the size of Mars, "it was no problem, really. I'm just happy to help - but the Commander must be busy with his classes and all, I'd wager, so if you ever need anything, feel free to hit me up."

T'Pol frowns slightly, skirting her eyes from the Yeoman to Trip and then back again. Trip shakes his head at her stubbornly, biting back a grin. "...'hit' you?" she finally asks, tentatively, as if she's not sure she heard correctly. 

"It means contact me whenever you wish," Park says hurriedly. "You know, if the Commander ever needs a day off, or - or a vacation or something - "

"Alright," Trip finally says, stepping into the conversation both verbally and physically. T'Pol twitches a little as he lays his palm against the small of her back, probably inwardly cringing at his slight rudeness. "Thank you, Yeoman, I'm sure she'll take you up on that when she finally wises up and gets sick of me. Are you alright to get back to HQ on your own, or would you like us to call you an airtaxi?"

To her credit, Park doesn't even blink. "No, sir, thank you. I live just a few blocks from here and I'm fine walking."

"Night has fallen," T'Pol says, "and this city is not as safe as it once was. It is truly no trouble, Yeoman."

"Well," Park says, blushing for maybe the eighteenth time this evening, by Trip's estimation, "if you insist."

"I guess we do," Trip says dryly, reaching for his comm. Maybe 'refreshing' isn't quite the right word. 

It's not as if Trip isn't grateful; T'Pol more than capable of navigating Earth by herself, but she works so much that she often simply doesn't have time to do the basic things - especially when he wasn't around to drag her away from her office. She needed someone to buy her groceries and drive her to the Consulate and sit with her on the roof balcony and zone out while listening to her tap out her reports on her PADD, or the soft whuff of her breathing as she meditated, or the weird little hums she would let loose when she was thinking about something interesting, or - yeah okay, maybe he's a little jealous. 

Yeoman Park is hardly a romantic rival; she's barely nineteen and she still has braces, for God's sake. But maybe Trip's still feeling a little guilty about being away for so long. 

"I can make tea while we wait," Park offers, still neutrally courteous. 

"No need," T'Pol says quickly, reaching up with one hand to subtly touch the back of Trip's palm, resting in front of her on the bookshelf. A short burst of mental pressure makes Trip's eyes water, like a sneeze but inside his head, and he closes his eyes briefly, left with the impression of over-steeped leaves, burnt sugar, a teapot forever ruined. He smirks. "I would prefer coffee, as would the Commander. I will make it."

"Oh, alright then," Park says, showing the first sign of disappointment. "Thank you again, then, Subcommander. Coffee would be wonderful."

"She makes a great cup of joe," Trip says, smiling genially. "Just wait - even better than her tea."

"It is not difficult to cater to the Commander's tastes," T'Pol says evenly, as if he's not even there - which is kind of hot, if he's being honest, "he enjoys - how did the Captain put it? 'Strong enough to strip leather.'"

"Close enough," Trip says, winking at Park, who smiles tentatively. "She likes it strong, too. Hope you don't mind, Yeoman."

The young lady shrugs. "My dad drinks it that way - I'm used to it."

"Very well," T'Pol says, touching Trip's hand again, making him shiver. "Shall we?"

Speaking of tea: there are, approximately, fourteen thousand million boxes of it in T'Pol's apartment. Trip wakes up the next morning, with a mind to make her some breakfast, but finds himself gobsmacked at the Tetris-like configuration of her cupboards. There isn't even any _flour._

"Honey," Trip says, kicking the bedroom door open with one heel, "look at this. Are you awake? I need your attention, Subcommander."

T'Pol's eyes snap open, and her face rearranges into a glare. Then she closes her eyes again. "No."

"No, you're not awake, or no, I can't have your attention?" Trip asks, and doesn't wait for an answer, crawling onto the bed on his knees, dropping the box of tea on the nightstand. "Love of my life, k'diwa, parting and always parted touching forever yadda yadda - wake _up_." He leans over her, grinning, and kisses the pointy tip of her nose. T'Pol's knee jerks up, as if connected by a nerve ending, and stops threateningly close to his solar plexus, and Trip laughs. "Now I _know_ you're awake. C'mon."

"I am not," T'Pol says, contradicting her own words by reaching out to feel around for his face, palming his cheeks and sliding her fingers into an approximation of the mind meld position, pursing her lips a little, her eyes squinting in her effort to keep them closed. Trip kisses her fingers, swallowing the urge to laugh again. "I am very deeply asleep, husband. As are you."

"No," Trip says, wrapping one hand around her wrist, turning his head to kiss her palm. "We're not."

"You are mistaken. We are both still sleeping."

Trip finally lets the second laugh free. "Hard to argue in the face of such _logic,_ but as you know I'm a chaotic human and I can't really help it. Why don't you open your eyes for me, darlin'? It's a beautiful morning."

As she always does, when he asks genuinely, she listens. She's still frowning, though. "I wish you would not wake me so abruptly. It is unpleasant."

"Sorry," Trip says, not really meaning it, "but look at this." He grabs the box of tea. "Were you aware this tea was in your kitchen?"

T'Pol squints at it. "That is a hallucinogenic blend from Orion," she says, with a faint tone of disapproval.

"It was in your cupboard!"

"Hm." T'Pol blinks once, then twice. "Yeoman Park would not have purchased it for me."

"So you didn't know it was there?" Trip presses, still grinning. "Hard to imagine, since you have such a...modest collection."

T'Pol affects the stoic look she gets when she's trying not to seem ashamed or embarrassed. "I have received many gifts over the past few weeks from Federation dignitaries, as well as from the Vulcan ambassadorial delegation and their families. Tea is a traditional gift on Vulcan; it has been difficult to keep track of what I have acquired, and from who."

"Somebody gave you _LSD tea,_ " Trip concludes with glee, rolling over on his back to lay next to her on the bed. T'Pol blinks at the ceiling again, before turning her head on the pillow to watch him. "I bet it was one of those Starfleet idiots. Can't trust someone who wants to work in space for a living - adrenaline junkies and perverts, the lot of 'em."

"My associations are widely known by now. Perhaps you have given me a reputation."

Considering what Trip's been able to deduce from the oblique, passive-aggressive conversations with the Vulcans who come to call, he doesn't think she's all that far off from the truth, there. "Maybe," he says, leaning in for a human kiss. She indulges him easily, but keeps her eyes open, wide and calm as they kiss. Trip hasn't told her yet, that most humans close their eyes, because he doesn't want her to stop - it's kind of nice. "You wanna get weird and drink some with me today? I got nothin' on the calendar."

"I have had it before," T'Pol tells him, to his surprise. "It is not pleasant."

"No shit?"

"There are many things I did in service to Vulcan that I would not have done otherwise," T'Pol says, and Trip laughs out loud in incredulity. "If you would like to sample it, we can do so. Fasting beforehand is recommended, however."

"Maybe someday. When we have a _real_ vacation - no comms or PADDs or yeomans who might unexpectedly drop by," Trip says pointedly. "Come on, let's go out for breakfast. There's nothing in your kitchen but weird tea and jojobu oil."

"I had expected to dine with Captain Hernandez this morning, so I instructed Yeoman Park not to purchase too much food this week."

"We'll fix that," Trip says, feeling that warm glow from last night when she'd said, _Commander Tucker will take care of the necessities_ in her sexy, back-off-smelly-human voice. "Maybe we can stop by the market on our way back. Did you cancel with Erika? I wouldn't have minded."

"I wished to spend time with you instead," T'Pol says simply. When such a thing would have been earth shattering not even a year ago, now she says it as if it is simply a fact, which Trip supposes it is. "We rescheduled for tomorrow. You are welcome to attend."

"I just might. Be nice to see her." Trip leans in and kisses her again, unable to help himself. T'Pol tilts her chin back, her bare calves scraping against the sheets as she moves, pulling his hand into a Vulcan kiss at the same time. She must have _really_ missed him. "Park doesn't have override access to your door, right?"

"Of course not," T'Pol says, disapproval of the question evident in the arch of her eyebrow. 

"Just askin'," Trip says, pulling her closer. On second thought, maybe brunch would be better. 

Six weeks isn't a terribly long time, considering they've been apart for much longer periods before. Somehow, though, time apart on Earth is a very different thing. Trip loves his family, but enough was enough, by the end - he left three days early. 

He wouldn't have gone, not so soon after T'Pol's reassignment, but it was his brother's wedding - for the second time, to the same person, go figure. Albie and Sam had been on and off again for years, but last Trip had checked they were firmly off - divorced officially and everything. When the call came from his mother that they were getting remarried, Trip had thought it was a joke at first. 

"Kinda quick," was all Trip dared to say, but his little brother picked up on the suspicion anyway. "Not that I'm not happy for ya, Al. Sam's the only man good enough for you; I've always thought so."

"Yeah well, some of us have to make due with the people we meet on _this_ planet," Albie had replied, not letting Trip get away with it, and so yeah, that was about the extent of family bonding during this particular family function. 

His mother, bless her heart, tries hard to include T'Pol in these sorts of things, but his father's resistance and Albie's snotty little chip on his shoulder make it hard for everyone to really embrace the togetherness, and so it was just as well that T'Pol couldn't get away from her duties at the Consulate long enough to come with. T'Les had actually warned him about this - on Vulcan, before Koss had made his entrance, one morning in the garden as they regarded each other warily over tea. _Your reception on Earth will not be dissimilar. You speak of your family with affection, but are they prepared to accept a Vulcan daughter into their clan?_ As usual, she was right. 

"The painting was a hit, though," Trip tells her, as she carefully combs through her gigantic tea cupboard, searching for something in particular with a cute little crease between her eyebrows. "As usual, you're way better at gifts than me."

"I am glad," T'Pol says simply, emerging from the cupboard with a strange-looking tin of tea in one hand. "I regret that I missed the ceremony. I trust that you conveyed my regrets to your brother and his husband."

"I did," Trip says absently, squinting at the tin curiously. "What's that?"

"An elta blend from Andoria. High in caffeine, and quite sweet. You will enjoy it," T'Pol says, cracking open the lid and peering inside. "There is enough left for one cup. I will make myself something different."

"If you like it, hon, you can have the last of it."

"There are others I like," T'Pol says simply, carefully shaking the leaves into the infuser resting on top of Trip's mug. The Vulcans brew tea by the cup - with tiny little mesh baskets that lower into the oblong-shaped chalices with the press of a latch. Most Vulcan cutlery is handmade - unique to each household, by necessity and tradition. T'Les' house had plates and chalices made from deep red clay - sturdy and practical, but with a thin glaze of paint that also made them look elegant, at the same time. A fitting metaphor, when you think about it. "As you pointed out earlier, I do currently have an excess."

Trip smiles at her, watching the familiar movements of her hands with fond attention. "Folks probably just don't know what else to give you. You guys can be a little intimidating, you know."

"So I've been told." T'Pol narrows her eyes at the array of tins that have been unearthed from her cupboard, and selects a cardboard blue box for her own cup, with a cartoonish logo of a blueberry on its side. 

Trip leans over his own mug, letting the steam warm his face. It smells like space - like that moment when you take your helmet off in the airlock, and the atmosphere swarms up to meet you. Hot metal and gunpowder. "Whew. This doesn't smell sweet."

"The odor is misleading. Try it," T'Pol urges, settling down next to him with her own cup. "There's an herb on Andoria called the _taryzhar_ that is toxic to shaysha beetle, an invasive species that has been known to contaminate and destroy crops. They include it in many different food products to protect their supplies. It is safe for consumption, although its smell is...off-putting."

"No kidding," Trip says, lifting the infuser gently out of the liquid. Tentatively, he takes a sip - she's right, of course. "Wow. Sort of like...boysenberry?"

"One cup has more caffeine than an entire pot of coffee," T'Pol says. "Andorian pilots drink it to stay alert."

"So everything you eat on Andoria smells like this?" Trip asks, taking another drink. The smell starts to fade a little, fighting against the strong taste, which seems to almost become sweeter, the more Trip drinks. "I reckon they get used to it after awhile, but I don't remember that from the food we had on Shran's ship."

"You may not have noticed it then. They were very likely serving us the best of what they had in storage." T'Pol pauses delicately. "It is a matter of pride, in their culture."

"Uh huh," Trip says amusedly. "You seem awfully familiar with Andoria, considering your people have been at war with them for so long. Before we came along, anyway."

"We were not _actively engaged_ in war," T'Pol reminds him. "There has always been commerce, between our societies. Friendships and relationships. Many Vulcans did not agree with our government's foreign policy, and the same was true on Andoria. You would be hard pressed to find a society in which that was not the case."

"Yeah, but Vulcans seem to be united in keeping their traps shut about it," Trip teases. "Maybe they didn't agree, but they sure wouldn't have went around flapping their jaws to outsiders."

"You have not met that many Vulcans," T'Pol replies cryptically, gently smoothing back the collar of his shirt, pulling it back into place where it's been sitting inside out, ruffled by Trip's carelessness while dressing. "Tell me about the wedding."

"You'll never believe this," Trip says, leaning in on his elbow, "but Sam's sister Kate? She's _pregnant._ "

T'Pol raises one lone, incredulous eyebrow. "Did she reunite with her ex-husband?"

Trip shakes his head gleefully. He's been holding onto this piece of gossip for _days._ "She's with Noah now. You know - Maritza's old fiance?"

"I see," T'Pol says, folding her hands beneath her chin. "That is...unexpected."

Trip leans back in his chair, spreading out his hands, outraged all over again now that he's thinking about it. "That's what I said! Totally shameless about it too, holding hands right at the table where Maritza could see. Poor kid."

"Maritza was being courted by your uncle's neighbor, is that not correct? The violinist."

"Yeah, but it's still only been a couple months since she and Noah broke up! And Kate's already pretty far along, which means he was _definitely_ runnin' around on her, and that's never a great thing to hear, whether you've moved on or not." Trip shakes his head. "You shoulda been there, T'Pol - it was awkward as hell. Maritza handled it well, though - gave a great speech - you'da been proud."

"I'm sure." T'Pol sips her tea slowly. "She would be welcome here, should she want to visit."

"I already invited her for New Year's." Trip grins at her. "She told me to tell you 'hello.'"

T'Pol nods slowly, which means she's pleased. Maritza's always been her favorite. 

The market by T'Pol's place isn't officially a Starfleet operation, but being so close to the Academy campus, they accept the student and faculty credit chips anyway. Most of the folks who go there are exhausted graduate students and family members of employees and faculty - none of the undergrads usually venture this far into the faculty neighborhood - so nobody dares to bother them. Now, if they'd tried to go shopping at the big farmer's market by the wharf on a Saturday morning - that'd be a different story. 

"He makes the best honey," Trip's telling her, as they pick their way through the produce section, "he infuses it with fruit - strawberries and rhubarb and pomegranate. Everything's organic, of course. Been buying his lemon avocado honey for years - since I was a tiny Academy freshman, even. Goes great on toast."

"Does he keep the bees himself?"

"His sister does," Trip says. "Never met her, but I met her husband, he helps Mac run the stall some weeks. I wish I could take you," he finishes, a little forlornly. "Maybe in a few months, if we manage to stay out of the news, it'll die down enough that we can show our faces down at the wharf."

"Yeoman Park introduced me to a brand of ginger syrup, I believe from Earth, that goes well in tea," T'Pol says, picking up a rutabaga and weighing it in her hand speculatively. "It is not very sweet, however."

"Maple syrup's good in tea," Trip says, plucking the vegetable out of her hand and placing it in the basket. "Let's get some oysterplant. I wanna make fritters tonight."

"The last time you attempted to fry food in my kitchen, you ruined the counter," T'Pol says disapprovingly. 

"I'm gonna _pan fry_ them, thank you very much," Trip says archly. "Besides, the landlord was too scared of you to make you pay for the damages."

"She was not frightened of _me,_ " T'Pol says pointedly, looking at him over the curve of her shoulder. 

"Me?! Nah."

"You are more intimidating than you think you are," T'Pol says, in a tone that probably sounds austere to anyone listening in - there are a few other customers lingering in the aisles, giving them sidelong looks - but to Trip's ears, the affection is obvious. "Yeoman Park was intimidated by you."

"I was tryin' to get her out of the apartment! I've been gone for six weeks." Trip frowns. "I'm never doing back-to-back trips again. The four weeks in Oslo were bad enough, and then two more with my _family_ \- oh, excuse us, I'm sorry - "

T'Pol nods grandly at the harried-looking man squeezing past them to get to the sweet potatoes, not seeming to notice the wide-eyed look of surprise she receives in return. Trip steers her quickly away, not wanting her to catch on. "I listened to the stream of your lecture at the Metallurgical Academy. I have some notes."

"I'm sure you do," Trip says dryly. "Blueberries or mangoes for dessert?"

"Mangoes," T'Pol replies firmly. She consults the handheld PADD she takes with her everywhere - practically melded to her wrist - her eyebrows furrowed. "We also need to procure some...tapioca."

"Alright Commander, that's a tough one but I think we can pull it off," Trip says. "Do we need a secondary emergency action plan, or are you okay with winging it?"

T'Pol looks dryly unamused. "It is most likely in the baking aisle," she says. 

"Ah," Trip says, playing along, "okay, you're probably right."

Every time they share a private meal together, T'Pol lights a candle for Elizabeth. In the past year or so, as their grief has settled comfortably into their bones, calcifying into something familiar and well-worn, she's stopped doing it as often. But when she's been thinking about her - or thinking about Trip - she still does it. Lately she's even started lighting candles for Lizzie and T'Les, too. 

"New candles," Trip comments, reaching carefully around her arm to turn the base of one of the candles for a better look. They're Vulcan in origin, obviously, but with a solid, heavy metal base, and a scroll of writing etched cleanly into the wax that he's never seen before. "What does this say?"

"That is our daughter's name, written in Old Vulcan," T'Pol says softly. She turns the other three that light the dinner table, one by one. "Your sister's, my mother's, and the last, the date of the Xindi attack on Earth."

"Oh," Trip says, pulling back his hand. His throat closes up. 

"They were a gift from Lieutenant Sato," T'Pol says. She carefully cuts off a piece of her fritter, her eyes on her plate. "It was...extremely thoughtful of her."

"I'll have to comm her and thank her myself," Trip says, reaching for his own fork. A somber silence falls, but not an uncomfortable one. T'Pol's presence in his mind is quiet tonight - like the sensation of being watched over, looked upon by someone you love. Trip's missed that feeling desperately - it's so much worse, to know that she's so closeby, on the same planet, but still too far away for his mind to touch. 

No more. T'Pol's work at the Consulate will keep her here for a long time, and he's due to start his first round of classes in just a few weeks' time. From here on out, they are officially planet-bound - and if his family wants to see him, _they_ can damn well buy a train ticket. 

"I think," Trip says, breaking the silence, "that I'll have my students call me 'Dr. Trip.'"

T'Pol, having picked up on the train of his thoughts through the bond, doesn't even twitch. "That is a horribly immature form of address."

"But fun." He tilts his wine glass at her. "I wanna be the kooky professor. I had one of those when I was in school - Dr. Harry. He wore wigs all the time - a different one each week - and he carried his pet dog everywhere - ugly little poodle, its face looked like it'd been kicked in by a shovel."

"I am sure you will find a way to develop a similar reputation," T'Pol says dryly, "having your students address you by your proper title will not hinder you for long."

Trip chuckles. "'Dr. Tucker' just doesn't have the same ring to it. Plus, it makes me think someone's talking to my mom."

"On Vulcan," T'Pol says, "it is traditional for the spouse of the lower class family to take the surname of their partner. In accordance to that practice, you would have taken mine." She pauses to take another delicate bite. "I mean no offense to your parents, of course."

"A political dissident who helped change the entire structure of Vulcan society does sort of trump 'literature professor' and 'hockey coach,' yeah."

"So if you wish, you may feel free to have them address you as _Dr. s't'Sai-kal'I ga'alt'Charles_ , to show respect to my culture's tradition."

"Uh huh," Trip says. "Generous of you to offer."

"Perhaps _Dr. s't'Sai-kal'l ga'alt'Trip_ would be more to your preference."

Trip decides not to dignify that with a response. "What does your surname mean again? _Lady of the ceremony,_ something like that?"

"'From the noble lady of the challenge,'" T'Pol says. "In Old Vulcan. In our modern tongue, it is simply a name."

"I think mine means 'brave.'" Trip tilts his head, thinking. "Or maybe 'tailor.' I forget."

"My mother was very proud of our clan's lineage," T'Pol says, her eyes on the steady flames of the candles. "She would be...pleased to know that we honored Elizabeth with a Vulcan name."

Trip says nothing, laying down his fork and reaching over to touch her knee, sliding his palm beneath the folds of her robe to touch her skin. He can feel her instantly relax a little, at the touch of his skin. 

"It would…" she swallows, blinking rapidly a few times, as if remembering what they were talking about, "certainly identify you as 'eccentric.'"

"I'm not gonna call myself a name I can't even pronounce," Trip complains easily. He's been working on it, but his accent is still atrocious. He once frustrated Hoshi so much she got up and walked right out on him, in the middle of a lesson. "Dr. Tucker will work fine, if it bothers you so much. Maybe I'll come up with something else - wear your Vulcan robes to class, make everyone pray and hold hands before lecture, something. Oh! I could get a dog!"

"No," T'Pol says flatly. 

"Not even a hypoallergenic one? There're plenty that don't smell too bad - "

"Trip," T'Pol says, reaching down to press her hand against his, still resting on her knee, " _no_."

"Aw, fine," Trip says. 

Before bed every night, T'Pol brews a pot of flower tea - when she has the time and supplies, of course - that to Trip's estimation is another ceremony: they almost never finish drinking it. In a special teapot made from blown, magnified glass from the southern continent on Vulcan, set in front of a candle and with the top left off, so the smell perfumes the entire room. The bundle of dried lhm'ta tea leaves are wrapped in a flower, which T'Pol usually drops into the boiling water with a special utensil that reminds Trip of a Japanese soup spoon. As it brews, the flower unfurls - and the color of the petals refract, through the colored glass, by way of the candle - and casts jeweled shadows all over their bed. 

A marriage ceremony - T'Pol takes comfort in these little rituals, Trip's found. He doesn't mind it all that much - she's sensitive to his moods, doesn't ever insist on them when he's tired or impatient or angry at her. Sometimes, he wishes she would - that she'd be a little pushier about that sort of thing. Maybe it'd be good for them both - a way of compromising, being silent together, even when they're angry. Like taking a bath together after a big fight - that's what Albie told him he and Sam do. 

"Do you miss Vulcan?" he asks, holding the sheet open for her to slide in-between. He asks her this often, and her answer is always the same.

"No."

"You miss certain things about Vulcan though. Things we could try to find for you here."

"It is of no import," T'Pol says, settling herself against his chest with proprietary nonchalance. "Luxuries do not affect my well being one way or the other. You spoil me sometimes, husband."

"It's my job," Trip says, kissing the crown of her head. There's a streak of light blue reflected on the curve of her elbow - further down, a patch of red, on the bend of the sheet where her knee is interrupting the pattern. "I want you to have a good life. I don't want you to regret leaving anything behind for me."

"I have nothing left on Vulcan that matters to me," T'Pol says quietly. "If I had not met you, Trip, I would have...nothing at all."

"Don't say that," Trip says, frowning at the ceiling. 

"It is true."

"Your work is something. Your logic is something. Your study of the Kir'Shara, your service to Starfleet, your contribution to the Federation Charter, your translations of your mother's notes - all of that _means something_ , T'Pol."

"I speak of something more than that," T'Pol says, reaching up to lay her palm against his breast, right where his heart beats. "Work can bring meaning to life, as can loyalty to a cause. Political action, the pursuit of knowledge - all of this is worthy of my time. But without you, Trip, I would not have any work for my _heart_." Through the bond, amplified by their physical contact, he can feel her earnestness, the pain and loneliness she'd felt while he was away, the sharp loss of her mother and Elizabeth that still churns deep inside of her, as it does inside of him. "One needs both, for a balanced life. It is not the repression of emotion which keeps us healthy - only its moderation. Respect for ourselves, for our loved ones. Surak did not wish for a Vulcan society devoid of compassion, or love - he wished for us to find harmony, to seek balance between our logic and the passion of our blood. It is that harmony that you bring to my life, Trip. I would be...less, without it. Without you."

Trip is quiet for a moment, thinking. "I love you," he finally says, solemnly, addressing the words to the ceiling. 

T'Pol doesn't say anything, instead letting her emotion seep through the bond, loosening her control ever so slightly so he can feel it. As always, the intensity of it takes his breath away. 

"I am...glad you are home," she says, after a long moment. 

Blinking away tears, Trip holds her a little tighter. "Me too." It's been a good day, he thinks. A very good day. He hopes every day is like this, from here on out. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"Indeed," T'Pol agrees.


End file.
